


Hidden Scars

by LaMarwy



Series: m'eudail [2]
Category: The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dub!Con, F/F, I mean it's Miranda, Night Terrors, Power Play, Recreational Drug Use, Sequel, Sexual Content, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29197428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMarwy/pseuds/LaMarwy
Summary: Those hidden scars will take longer to heal.Two months after Miranda kidnapped you, things have evolved. Every day, she teaches you new things, but her life outside the apartment is still a mystery.
Relationships: Miranda Croft / Reader
Series: m'eudail [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140818
Comments: 85
Kudos: 75





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

**Chapter 1**

You turn off the pan and put it aside when you hear her padding in the corridor. Humming to herself like she usually does after a satisfying day, she walks into the kitchen where you are, barely acknowledging your presence. It’s a game you know far too well to get bothered by that behavior.

Your first instinct would’ve been to ask her what has she been up to, outside, but after the last time, where she persuaded to stop asking questions with a not-too-gentle training session off the clock, knocking the curiosity out of your by force, you just bite your tongue and keep chopping the vegetables.

There are times when she returns home with dried blood under her nails, others, which happen more frequently, she’s so bruised up she can barely walk. Your mind often drifts on all the possible scenarios: fights, gun battles, homicides of all sorts, and you’re feeling scared, your stomach turning into a tight knot, yet you can’t discern if you’re more scared about her life, her nature, what she’s actually capable of, or the fact that she could go out, one day, and never come back.

Not that much has changed from when she gave you the last of the four lines on your left shoulder, forever making you hers with her initial carved in your flesh:  Miranda kisses you, lets you kiss her in return; Miranda takes you whenever she’s in the mood, and she lets you lay beneath her when she needs to get herself off after a particularly stressful day.  
She plays with you and you let her.  
The rules of that game haven’t been discussed, she is a player as well as the moderator, she sets the limits and breaks them whenever she wants; but still, it’s fresh, it thrilling, it’s what gives color to your otherwise grey life confined in that apartment. You wait for her to return home when she’s out, and buzz around her when she’s home, wondering when she’ll play with you again. In the night, rather than wonder if she’ll ever get bored of you, you often wonder _when_.  
While you wait and push the denigrating, useless thoughts in the back of your mind, you take whatever she wants to give you, well aware that anything is better than nothing at all.

When you feel her presence behind you, you do nothing to prevent your eyelids from fluttering close. The spicy scent of the cooked food gets soon replaced with the sweet one of her shampoo and soap and you inhale greedily, the grip getting loose around the handle of the chopping knife.

Miranda is silent when she breathes against the column of your neck, sharp teeth scratching lightly at your jaw. One arm loops around your waist, knocking almost all the wind out of you, the other, flushed against your side; her hand trails down steadily against your half-bare thigh, fingers tapping rhythmically against your skin, then creeping under the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing.

You still and force your eyes to open, focusing on the thin thread of smoke coming from the pan. Struggling to detach your mind enough from her touch to prevent your body from shivering, you can’t help the smirk blooming on your lips when you feel her stroking upward, palming the inside of your thigh, and dwelling on the black string fastened high on your leg. It’s not the first one she gave you, which was plain and practical, this one - also a gift - is thicker, just as efficient despite being made of a far cuter lace.

You shift impatiently when her nail scratches on the length of it, moving around, searching, relentless. 

“Where’s your knife?” She hisses against your neck, looping her fingers inside the strap, and she pulls at it roughly, using the leverage to nudge your legs apart.

You hardly contain a whimper when she claws at the soft flesh under her hand, dangerously close to the apex of your thigh, but not close enough to make any damage.

“You’re disobeying me?” She nibbles at the shell of your ear, but her teeth prick this time. “I think I told you to wear it always.” She reminds you, lolling her head backward so her teeth tug, and _tug_ until your skin stings with pain.

“I have it.” You reply then through a wheeze. You can feel her smile against your neck. “I have it here.” You add, softer, unfolding the fingers of your dominant hand to reveal the shiny, tear-shaped knife, ready to be used.

You don’t actually need to look at her to know that her eyes are sparkling with the familiar glim of upcoming violence that doesn’t scare you anymore.

Your blows are not messy like they were a few weeks ago, you’ve learned to angle your wrist and arm, you know exactly _where_ and _how_ to strike. There are times when you wonder whether Miranda lets you get this close to her face or a part of her body or if your skills have actually improved.

She hisses, a playful grin widening on her lips when she studies her arm, the torn sleeve, and, with more interest, the thin red line appearing on her freckled skin.

It’s a superficial cut, merely a scratch, but you contemplate the idea of begging for forgiveness before swallowing the words, your own mouth curving into a satisfied smirk when she lets out a breathy chuckle.

“I’m getting good at this.” You state boldly, your tongue stroking the edge of your teeth as you grip even firmer the knife in your hand.

“Oh, don’t be smug.” Miranda replies, and despite the grin curving her lips, you gasp at the feral sparkle behind her eyes. 

When she launches forward, you immediately realize your mistake and regret your inability to shut up. Yes, a couple of months ago that same inability gave you the chance to make her mask drop and crack open the outer shell - in all honesty, if you hadn’t talked, you think that whatever you’re doing would’ve never happened in the first place - but right now, your big mouth will only give you some nasty bruises that are probably going to last for days.

You only back away a few steps before the counter presses in the small of your back. You drop your knife, hitting away her fists with some of the moves you’ve learned, but that, too, doesn't last long.

Seemingly getting bored - or frustrated - after a couple of deftly averted shots, her knees hit your square in your abdomen. The piercing pain knocks the wind out of you, but you don’t have the time to double over, cradling the offending spot in your arms, before you feel her hand grabbing a fist full of hair, pulling at your scalp with viciousness.

“You're getting good.” She confirms with a snarl, deaf to your protests, and you grip at the edge of the counted when she pulls you near the induction hobs. “But not good enough, yet.”

You close your eyes when she draws your face near one of the hot surfaces - you’ve turned it off, but it’s still scalding, and you can feel the heat lap at your cheek.

You try to resist her when she pushes, and you’re aware she could push harder, easily making your cheek burn, but she simply doesn’t.

You can hear the tip of your hair sizzling against the scalding plate, and the smell of burnt is foul, it makes you cough and struggle even more when you fight the soreness that is settling in your neck.

“Sorry!” You mumble hurriedly, almost fearing that the littles movement can bring you closer to the searing pain she threatens to give you. “I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not.” She replies, tugging you flushed to her chest and away from the cookware.

When she spins you around, her palm is cool against your cheek, but hardly soothing. When she kisses you, it’s all teeth clashing together, fighting for a predominance you’ve already granted. When she palms you through the shirt, scattering backward only makes her rougher. And you grip at the counter edge at either side of your waist when she presses the small of your back into it, pinning between the hard surface and herself.

“And you shouldn’t be.”

Instinctively, you try to squirm away, lift yourself on your toes, but she follows, tugging at your lip with her teeth until a taste of copper pricks the tip of your tongue.

Miranda laughs at your struggle to contain pitiful whimpers when she twists your nipple between her fingers unexpectedly, and her other hand hurriedly groups the shirt up, fingers sliding between your bodies to cup your mound through the thin cotton of your underwear.

You kiss her back with fervor, chasing her hand with your hips, muffling your moans into her mouth when she presses harder, and moves faster, rubbing the damp fabric against your skin, spreading the growing arousal, making you wince in both discomfort and pleasure.

One of your hands keeps on gripping to the edge of the counter for leverage, the other flares up to fist at the back of her shirt when you feel the familiar heat coiling low into the pit of your loins.

“This is because you’ve been good.” She whispers against your mouth, hot, labored breath fanning your parted lips. Her fingers edge to your core, pushing the scratchy fabric _in,_ for a moment, making you hiss.

“Miranda-” You whimper, not sure if you want to tell her to stop or be merciful and properly touch you so you can have some blissful relief.

“And this,” she says, teeth grazing at the shell of your ear, “is because you got me.” She pecks a single kiss on your cheek, then pulls away altogether, leaving you panting and unsated.

“ _Fuck_ -” You growl biting more foul words back and heavily falling down on your feet, knees weak and you lean more on the counter behind you.

The woman smirks at you, clearly satisfied. She nibs at the tip of the fingers that have been between your thighs, her grimace swinging from a fake alienation from the facts and a mischievous admittance of her guilts.

“Let’s eat now.” She says, perching herself on her stool, face gracefully propped on the palms of her hands, elbows on the table.

You shake your head, a meek grin poorly hidden behind your gaped mouth.

You eat in silence, she dries the dishes after you’ve washed them, putting each back herself because she likes her own disposition, which you still can’t manage to figure out precisely - or so she claims, but at some point, you knew she just wanted to mess with you. 

It's late in the evening when Miranda makes you drink a mix of alcohol and some bitter solution she adds - every couple of days one drop more - a little something to prepare your body makes it go numb in case... something happens. She doesn’t tell you in case of _what_ , of course. The first few times it got you terribly sick, but then your body grew accustomed to it, much to her satisfaction - or relief, you’re still unsure.

Feigning reading your book at the feet of the couch, you watch her working on her laptop for hours. You stare at the scrunch of her nose when she focuses on something, at how she pushes back her glasses when the frame slides dangerously close to the tip of her nose, how she grunts and smiles and taps her fingers on the keyboard with no apparent rhythm.

When she’s done, you follow her for a moment, before dropping your gaze to the book in your lap, hardly paying any attention to it, your whole body alert and set on Miranda and what she's doing.

You hear her walking around the apartment, getting ready for bed - you hear the water running in the bathroom, the rustle of clothes when she changes into her tank top and shorts to sleep.

When she comes back, you pretend to read. It’s the same damn sentence for the fourth time or so.

Miranda’s presence is heavy behind you, almost vibrating in the room. You feel the cushions on the couch bend under her weight, and when her cool hand wraps around your neck, you obediently tilt your head up, blinking at her upside-down face. She smells of minty toothpaste and lotion.

Before you can even control your mind, restraining one of the too many things you’d like to say, and ask - but never say nor ask - your mouth has moved of its own volition.

“Join me to bed?” You mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.

You watch her expression twitch, you hope for it to shift, but it doesn’t: Miranda smirks at you, shakes her head slightly.

“Don’t be clingy.” She admonishes, pressing her mouth to yours, nails digging for a moment into the tender flesh of your throat. She kisses you softly this time, then she’s gone. “Don’t stay up too late.” She warns.

You nod in agreement, but she doesn’t see you, already walking into her room.

You wish her goodnight, but she doesn’t heart you, already too distant from you.

The tip of your tongue runs across your lips to taste what’s left of her.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda wants to play a game with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

####  **Chapter 2**

You wake up with a startle. As if time has tickled backward, you’re in your cell - the same one you woke up into months ago, just as scared and just as confused. Was it all just a nightmare? Did you do something wrong? You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You panic, for a moment, but all your efforts to move are slackened when you realize you’re unable to because all your limbs are efficiently restricted: your dominant hand is bound behind your back, one ankle tied to a loop bolted on the floor with a rope knotted multiple times, your other hand trapped inside the unmerciful grip of a handcuff which, due to the unnatural position in which you’re restrained, is pulling at your wrist painfully. You only have one leg free, and you jump around pitifully, trying to adjust and find a way to lessen the pain in either your wrist or ankle - you fail.

Unbothered to be heard, you let out a whimper, dropping your head forward until your chin meets your chest and a soreness settles in the nape of your neck. 

Fighting the heaviness in your eyelids - you’re vaguely aware that it hasn’t been a natural sleep, because you feel dizzy and nauseated - you wiggle every muscle in your body to make the blood flow and study the situation, just like Miranda has taught you.

You can almost hear her voice in your ear, echoing inside your head, soothingly coaching you: _don’t panic, observe. There’s always a way out._

You draw a shaky breath and look around, letting the familiar environment comfort you despite the startling situation. The white neon light is on, it’s buzzing, the vent above your head swirling rhythmically.

It’s another of her tests, but unlike the other times, this one has a pretty simple and clear task: you have to get out and free yourself from your old cell.

You don’t like it, though. Not like this. You feel betrayed, in a way, since you thought you were past those little games, but clearly, you were mistaken.  
Until now, all the tests and training has been consensual, or partially, but each time you knew you had the chance to pull yourself out of it any moment - not without begging, not without punishment, of course, but having the chance to tell her what was alright and what was not, always gave you a sense of comfort and safeness.

This is entirely different: this is Miranda giving you something to sleep, dragging you out of your bed in the middle of the night, while you were unconscious, this is Miranda locking up in your old cell and playing games with you for her own amusement.

You refuse to go back to what it was before - before you’ve reached that sort of balance. Before there was no softness paired with the roughness.

“Miranda!” You call frustratedly, pulling at the handcuff even though you know it’s useless. Your eyes search around the confined space, you know she has a camera, but you still don’t know where she put it - does she has a microphone too? Would she hear you? Or you’d be there screaming and shouting to no avail? It wouldn’t even surprise you.

Clenching your jaw, you try to cage your frustration and all the negative thoughts in the back of your head, and focus on your task, even to simply prove to her that you’re able to pass all her tests without the need for her to trick you into it. Doesn’t she know you’ll agree to anything by now? And not just because there’s nothing for you to do, but because it’s Miranda asking.

Lifting your head up again, you let your gaze wander around once more: the only way out, the bolted door, is behind you; but first, you need to free yourself from the bounds. Your free leg doesn’t give you much help except for keeping you upright and the tension off your wrist and ankle, your dominant hand is strapped to your back and unable to make the tiniest of movements. First thing first, you need to get rid of the handcuff, from there, it should be easy to unknot the rope or work your other hand free, or both.

Yet, removing the handcuff seems like an impossible task. Looping around your wrist, the metallic ring looks like it’s made just for you: it rests around your skin, loose enough for your arm to slide up and down, but tight enough to get stuck around your hand, as soon as it meets the carpals.

Swallowing, you realize the fastest way out is to find a way to crush the bones in your hand and slip it out the iron loop. But that’s just too fucked up even for her. Cuts are fine for they heal quickly, and so are bruises. Smashed bones take time, not to mention the pain - is she even equipped to treat smashed bones since she’s made crystal clear she won’t go inside a hospital?

You pull again, wincing when the metal digs in your flesh, and you hate your position, and a little yourself too when your sight becomes blurry, angry tears beginning to gather at the corner of your eyes.

You growl, glare at nowhere in particular.

“Miranda! Cut the jigsaw act!” You shout. “I will not partake in this, I didn’t sign for this shit!”

All the answer you get is a faint smell of burnt saturating air. Looking up, you see a cloud of smoke coming from the vent. Your mouth falls slacken, you pull harder on the handcuff, but it only hurts more.

“Are you for real?!” You screech, memories overlapping the present, your throat tightening as your brain reminds you of the horrific sensation of choking and drowning on yourself.

Of course, you should’ve anticipated it, nothing happens. The answer to that question is pretty simple, for Miranda hardly ever jokes, and never on tests or on what she thinks is training.

You have to get out.

 _Don’t panic, observe_. _There’s always a way out._

She always leaves clues around, tools waiting for you to notice and use. She has left you in your shirts and a tank top, she didn’t hook the lace on your thighs, and she didn’t provide your knife, so the tool you need isn’t on you, this time.

You frantically look around - the soiled mattress, the grates beneath you, the toilet, the vent, the panels - until you see a loose screw protruding from the wall, a few inches above the handcuff, pointy and shiny under the neon light.

Your eyes widen as the terrible, desperate thought settles in your brain.

Surely she doesn’t mean to... but no, on second thought, Miranda definitely would mean _that_. It could be a coincidence for a screw that is keeping two of the panels attached to the wall to be loose, but you know better, at this point, to consider it a coincidence.

You shut your eyes, Miranda’s voice laps at your ear, low and firm, purring awoken knowledge in your brain.

_Here’s the thing about blood, m’eudail: until it clots, it’s as slick as oil._

Turning your head as far as you can from the smoke, you draw long breaths to calm down, expand your lungs, and hold the last remnants of clear air in. Bracing yourself, you lock your gaze on the screw, push on your free leg, and bring your hand closer to the sharp tip of it, the handcuff sliding low on your arm.

You mentally count from three to one, open up your hand and slam your palm on the screw.

Hardly stifling moans of pain behind your lips, you almost cry unabashedly when you notice that the thin drop of blood streaming down your wrist and arms is not nearly enough. You whimper and press further, wiggling your hand a bit to work the wound to broad.

Thick liquid tickles freely down your skin now; the blood pours, you smell it and you feel it, warm and slippery down your arm.

You remove your hand, close it into a fist and press your nails into the fresh wound to coax more to come out. You rotate your wrists, let it coat in blood, and finally pull again. Your palm throbs, the bones in your wrist and hand seem on the verge of snapping, and when you tug more, the pain is overwhelming and you let out a cry. With that, as you pant, all the air leaves your lungs.

Your hand is free with an eerie _pop_ and the rattles of chains.

The ache ebbs away, fading into a pulsing and uncomfortable sensation, the wound burns, just like your eyes, clouded by the tears of anger, pain, desperation, and thickened by the smoke coming from the vent.

You collapse to your knee, the trapped leg outstretched and kept in place by the rope. You get an intake of clearer air and unfold your balled hand to work on the knot bounding your ankles: there’s no time to think about freeing your other hand now. You want to get out of there and you only need one, for that.

Miranda’s voice is in your ear again. Miranda’s hands are before your eyes as she shows how to fast and unfasten knots rapidly, making you do it for hours until the tips of your fingers are bruised and bloody.

When the rope falls open under your fingers, you hardly contain a triumphant yelp. You kick it away and push yourself up, coughing as you launch at the door, wondering if it’s open or locked and your work isn’t done yet.

Your shoulder collides with the thick iron of the door and, to your surprise, it moves. There was a part of you waiting for it to be shut, but the other part, the one that hoped it would be unlocked, for once, won.

Coughing more, you push harder, eager to leave the cell.

In the corridor, sitting on an armchair right outside the vault, bathed in dim sunlight, one leg swinging on top of the other, her foot bouncing carelessly, Miranda stares and smirks up at you.

“Twenty-one minutes.” She notes.

Breathing in the fresh air, you stumble forward, the muscles in your shoulder sore as your hand still rests bound on your back, bent into an uncomfortable position. You glare, unsure what to bark at her to make your opinion on the matter known without enraging her too much.

“Good, but slow.” She adds, leans forward, and kicks the door of the cell close to avoid the leaking cloud of smoke to seep more into the rest of the apartment.

“Was that really necessary?” You ask, voice coming out ragged, making you cough even more.

“Oh, look at you.” Miranda pouts at you in mockery.

She holds out her hand now, and despite the anger rising up, both for her little games and her current behavior, you take it, let her tug you closer to where she’s sitting.

“You didn’t leave me many options.” You counter, wincing when she grabs your wrist, making you turn your hand with your palm up to the ceiling, her blue eyes studying the stretched puncture in the middle.

“True.” She tsks, but there’s a tinge of complacent triumph in her voice.

Miranda pulls you to sit across her lap. You let her, shifting comfortable your legs above hers, scooting closer to rest your shoulder on her chest.

Before you can ask her to help with the bound arm, it’s free, and you move your shoulder to loosen the muscles and ward away the soreness.

The silence is soothing. The warmth of her body against yours is too. The way her thumbs rubs small circles all around the palm, carefully avoiding the wound, makes you almost forget the pain.

You watch her gazing at your hand, seemingly mesmerized by the way the blood bubbles up from the puncture, then dribbles out and clots on your skin. Once bored, she reaches for something on the floor and settles a towel in your lap, carefully rests your hand there and, without any warning, she squirts rubbing alcohol on the wound.

The smell makes you dizzy, but the stinging pain keeps you very much awake. You squirm and whimper when she wipes at the blood with the towel, shushing you with the same sugary voice of a mother soothing a misbehaved toddler. It’s irritating, but it works.

“Good girl, you didn’t pierce too deep, I’ll patch you up real quick.” She says and keeps her promise, rubbing a cicatrizant paste on the wound and sticking a bandaid on your palm with a firm but careful pressure.

She hums in approval, her hand cradling yours as she tries to rub some of the stinging away, the other resting on your hip to keep you flush against her, slowly snaking up your top and stroking up and down your side.

Your eyes drift close, focusing on her caresses, on the faint scent of talcum coming from her skin.

There’s always a quiet moment of rest after every particularly challenging or difficult test or training. Even though she might not see those sessions as a reward, you do, allowing yourself to feel proud at the new accomplishment.

“Why didn’t you ask?” You breathe out, cracking your eyes open just to see her tilting her head to you, gaze between inquisitorial and confused. “You know I would’ve done it.” You gesture the cell with your chin, without tearing your eyes from her face.

Miranda nods imperceptibly, her hands stop moving.

“You think people ask before kidnapping you?” She cocks an eyebrow in your direction, then, a smirk blooms on her thin lips. “I sure didn’t.”

She’s got a point. Yet, that implies that all those tests and training have actually a meaning beyond mere entertaining on her part. It implies you need to be ready, it implies that one day, she’ll let you out and perhaps help with whatever she does, outside. Or perhaps she simply wants you to be able to take care of yourself, as extreme as her methods are, because you know the world is a harsh place to live in, but it cannot possibly be _that_ harsh.

“I doubt anyone would find me interesting enough to kidnap me.” You scoff, gasping silently when she narrows her eyes. “Except for you, apparently.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, m’eudail.” She counters, and without averting her eyes, you feel her thumb pressing relentlessly above the bandaid, directly into the puncture. You hiss and try to squirm away, but the bruising grip of her other hand on your hip keeps you in place. “You’re stronger than you think. You've endured more than most of the people would.”

When she lifts her thumb, releasing you from the pressure, there’s a red circle on the bandaid. She cradles your hand from beneath and brings it to her lips, placing a kiss on your palm that is hardly doing anything to lessen the throbbing.

“How is that even useful?” You breathe out frustratedly, closing your hand into a fist, wincing when you feel the sting of the wound, and the bandaid pulling at your skin. “I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time.” You tighten your fist unconsciously just to feel more.

“You don’t need to know, for now.” She murmurs, her voice low, her breath warm against your neck, her teeth sharps as she nibbles at your jaw.

“When?”

She suckles at your skin hard, you try to keep still until the tip of her tongue soothes the bruise you know she’s procured.

“When you’re ready.” She purrs. The hand that she’s kept on your side travels upward, past the band of your bra.

You let out a breathy chuckle.

“Will I ever be?”

Your eyes meet for a long second. The sun shines in the blue of her eyes and you instantly forget your anger and confusion when her pads reach the underside of your breast.

You hate the power she has on you, but you also love it; you cling to it desperately because you don’t have anything else, and yet, you’re also painfully aware that you don’t _want_ anything else.

Miranda smiles. But unlike other times, it doesn’t suffice as an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insta (for updates & extras): lamarwy_ao3  
> If you have time, please leave a comment and I'll be eternally grateful.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's night, but it's not a quiet one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

####  **Chapter 3**

You’re not sure why you woke up, or neither if those distant noises that still ring in your ears come from scenarios you don’t remember dreaming, or from outside, far below in the streets, or even much closer, from another room in the apartment.

You push yourself up and rub your eyes, vaguely dwelling on whether you should go check or just surrender to the heaviness of your body and go back to sleep. You’ve almost decided for the latter, already missing the warmth of your sheets, when you hear it again, clear and confused at the same time - a whimper fading into a groan, a pant turning into a wheeze - and something triggers inside you, and all the sleepiness is gone in a heartbeat.

You swing your legs off the bed and pad barefoot out of your room. There’s no need to search for robbers in the kitchen or in the bathroom, so you round the corner and go straight to Miranda’s room, peeking through the small crack left by the open door.

You thought she would sleep with her door close - the occasion to actually check never occurred - and most of all with her blinders drawn, but she apparently does not, and the lights from the city pour into the room, and so do moonbeams, casting silvery shadows all over.

Hesitantly, you slide inside the room, your gaze drifting from the carpet to the bed. There, among a ruffled bundle of sheets and blankets, Miranda lays on her back, arms on top of the duvet, hands balled into tight fists at either side of her face - a face that is scrunched up, lips parted into a silent cry, releasing ragged breaths and broken words you can’t discern in the least. Her forehead is covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, and so is her neck, and her chest, the skin that is still exposed from beneath her shirt.

For a moment, you stay there, mesmerized by the sight of Miranda - the strong, unpredictable, scary woman you know - now so vulnerable to look almost... human. As if you weren’t expecting her to dream as well and, just like any other person, to have nightmares too.

It’s comforting, in a way, to know that the dangerous life outside the front door of the apartment, outside that building, affects her, that she has a conscience, somewhere deep down, and she fears and thinks and  _ feels  _ like you.

There’s hope, then, not only to make her drop her several masks but to work some way to go underneath the thick skin she owns.

And yet, for as comforting as it is, to know that she’s not a robot, nor a person made for eighty percent of pure sadism, you don’t wish to see her suffer. She might deserve it - from time to time - but not like this.

“Miranda?” You call her, at first, hoping that the fact that she’s usually a light sleeper works to your advantage and spare you the need to get closer and test her reaction upon being awoken from a nightmare - one that honestly doesn’t seem pleasing at all.

Miranda, however, doesn’t seem keen to listen, too caught up in her dream.

Sighing and silently praying to your good star - or muttering obscenities under your breath - you pad closer to the bed. Folding your arms on your chest, you lean slightly down, brow pinched when you see the sweat growing on her hairline, some of the dark locks glued to her skin.

“Miranda, wake up.” You try again, but one intake of air from her, and your voice gets easily covered up.

You swallow, brace yourself, and sit down heavily on the edge of the bed.

“Miranda?” You call, raising your voice a bit. She stirs, her lips move without making a sound, her head turns vehemently, then she tenses, she stills, drops of sweats gather and runs down her temples into the already dampened pillow under her head. “ _Miranda_!”

You didn’t mean to grab her shoulder and shake her, but when you realize it, it’s too late: you’ve made the mistake of touching her while she’s in such a state, and the moment she snaps her eyes open, blue irises almost glowing in the dim light of the room, you already know it’s going to hurt.

Your back hit the mattress with such force that if that was the floor or any other surface, the one upon which she’s slammed you, surely you would have broken something. Before you can even think what’s happening, her hands are around your neck, and she  _ squeezes _ , harder than she’s ever squeezed before. When she pressed her knees in your stomach, digging firmly under your ribcage and pushing upward with the only intent of pinning you down with pain, you think you might pass out.

“What do you think you're doing?” She barks, her face so close to yours, and her eyes are staring at you, but you know she can’t really see, part of her brain still trapped in the land of the dreams.

Your sight becomes blurry, the pain travels in your head and your temples throbs due to the pressure, and it’s scary and difficult, but you struggle and push the air left in your lungs out.

“Miranda, it’s me-” You croak. “You were dreaming.”

Trying to claw her hands off your neck would be impossible, you know that, so instead you simply lift your arms in surrender, and try to relax your body underneath her, proving you don’t mean any threat.

With frenzy eyes, she stares at you, gritted teeth, then her grip loose.

You inhale deeply when she moves her hands from your neck to your cheeks and she holds your head firmly from both sides, tosses it right, then left, brings it straight again, eyes boring into your with intent, fingertips hollowing your cheeks, thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones. You cannot do much but stare back at her and watch, utterly confused, while her eyes move downward and she studies your neck, almost as if she’s expecting to find something there.

Miranda swallows thickly, then releases you all at once, shaky hands balled into fists dropped at her sides.

“What was that about?” You croak out as you scramble a little, trying to push yourself up into a sitting position. You wait for an answer that never comes and, panting slightly, you watch her hooking one of her hands underneath the hem of her t-shirt, tugging it off her torso in one swift movement.

Miranda tosses the offending cloth on the floor with very little care, and walks on her knees back to the headboard, crawling heavily to her pillow. She lets herself fall flat on her stomach with a huff.

“Go to bed.” She commands, her voice coming out muffled.

You don’t move a muscle to get off her mattress, instead, carefully, you scoot over, inching closer and closer to her side. You know she’s watching you from her cracked eyelids, and even if you could swear no one could ever be able to actually see in that kind of light and through a curtain of black lashes, you know she can. Almost as if she has superpowers or a sixth sense, Miranda knows where you are and she knows what are you going to do, always. She knows… most of the time.

You watch the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders as she tries to regulate her breathing, you watch the sheen of sweat glistening on her back, the spasms of her muscles unable to unknot just yet. You know she’s watching, you know she’s waiting, you know she’s going to complain, but you do it anyway.

When the tips of your fingers touch her skin, you’re surprised she doesn’t flinch right away. You trail down from the hallow crease between her shoulder blades, trace every jut of her spine with a ghostly touch, and when you reach the slope of her back you’ve gathered courage and you feel bolder, so you splay your whole hand there, unsure whether you’re actually rubbing her muscles of just collecting sweat to wipe away from her skin.

It’s rare that she allows you to touch her like that - hell, it’s rare that she allows you to touch her _at all_ when she hasn’t decided that either one of you, or both, is in for some intimate, more carnal activity.

Within seconds, you find yourself mesmerized, watching how your fingers glide on her taut skin, made cold due to the dew of sweat that still lingers and yet, underneath, is warm and inviting and you dwell on the tensed muscles of her loins, further down until you reach the elastic band of her boxer brief that rest on her hips.

For a moment, you wonder if this is real, whether that body underneath your hand is an actual person or just a product of your imagination, and you try to remember if you went back to sleep and this could be simply a dream; but then Miranda moves, she shifts under your touch, goosebumps rising on her skin where your fingers have just been. Gazing up at her face, you can swear you see the muscles of her cheeks twitching as she clenches it, her eyes fluttering open, staring into a dark corner of the room.

“What were you dreaming about?” You hear yourself ask.

Miranda closes her eyes, draws a long intake of air, and her body tenses underneath your hand. It's like she was waiting for that question to come up and now that it has, she completely hates it - the question, your hand on her back, your very presence in her room.

“Don’t do that.” She says. Her voice is low and it vibrates through her body, under your palm, like a purr of a cat, but it’s hardly soothing or relaxing.

“Do what?” You ask, stilling your hand immediately. It’s not the time to make a wrong move, you need to be sure what exactly she wants to end: is it the rubbing on her back, or is it the-

“Talking.” She answers for you.

You hesitantly resume your light rubbing, daring to press more into her loins with her pads to unknot the muscles you find there.

“I was just trying to help.” You explain. It’s a little vexing to know that you basically have to ask for permission to do anything out of the ordinary that involves her, but on the other hand, have you two really discuss it through? Most of the time, she’s still the hard woman to read who kidnapped you in the middle of a dark alley and you’re still alive because she’s not bored of you, yet.

“Don’t.” She snaps, slapping the pillow away from her and nestling her head between her arms. “Go to bed.”

You’re not sure what that little exhale means: does she really want you to go? Then why hasn’t she made the slightest effort to physically push you off her bed? Any other time, she would nudge at your thigh with the sole of her foot until you got the cue and leave. One thing for sure, she has decided to end the argument. It’s silly: you know very well that if she doesn’t want to share her nightmares, those will only get more and worse.

And you can’t stop thinking about her first reaction when she woke up: her startled expression, her frenzy eyes studying your features. You almost feel responsible for her nightmares, even if you don’t know what they were about.

“Do you have to go outside tomorrow?”

Once again, her eyes snap open. She clenches her jaw one more time, but this time the feral twitch leaves her gaze almost immediately. She swallows.

“Probably.”

“Then you need to rest,” you try to reason. “I’m not stitching you up again.”

The phantom of a smile appears on her lips, perhaps at the memory - the first event that brought you two slightly closer - but then, it disappears all at once.

Miranda clears her throat, blinks once, twice, then lets her eyelids fall down without shutting her eyes completely.

“I’ve handled worse.” She states.

You know it’s probably true, but you don’t see why she shouldn’t be doing anything about it. You can help with that.  
For months she’s been teaching you things, she’s been training you, and - for goodness’ sake - she’s been fucking you and letting her fuck in return, so she might as well accept a little bit of help from your part. She can’t be on the lead all the time, can she?

“Go to bed, now.” She says again, sternly this time.

Yes, she can. Of course, she can. Still, you have to try.

You sigh, close your hand into a fist when you leave her body, and scoot slightly away on the bedspread. She shifts a bit, watching you through hooded eyes, her face unreadable.

“Would you like company tonight?” You hate the tone of your voice, in between a plea and a proposition that you’ve been forced to make; you know it’s neither of those things and yet it’s exactly how you managed to make it sound. You hate it.

Miranda tenses again, she frowns, tosses her head to the side, hiding her face from your gaze.

“If I wanted to have my feet warmed up in the night, I would’ve gotten a cat.”

It’s gratuitous and undeserved. This night she has decided to nudge you away with words instead of her foot; you’re used to that, find it amusing in a certain sense, but this is different, tugs at something within you.

“Instead you got yourself a human.” You snap, trying to make her see the implication of those words: are you really back to wonder if you’re merely a pet, for her? A kitty to play with, boss around, teach tricks and behaviors for her sole entertainment?

“You chose to stay.” Miranda breathes out. It’s not a complete apology, just a reminder that, in fact, she doesn’t own you like a person owns a pet. Not exactly; close, but not exactly.

Miranda is not inclined to admit her mistakes - does she even believe she’s capable of making mistakes? - so that it’s already something. She is a hard, complicated woman, no matter how many masks you tear off her face, there’s always another lying beneath.

It’s how Miranda is. You chose to stay, knowing it wouldn’t be easy. You knew you’d have to take whatever she decides to give you without expecting much back. You can - and will - try, taking into account that a refusal is likely to be her response; you just have to find a way to avoid the disappointment that will surely follow.

You cross your arms and draw a sigh.

“Want to come to sleep in my bed?”

Miranda doesn’t move. You hear her scoff.

“Why would I?”

Unseen, you roll your eyes.

“Because the sheets are drenched.” You point out. In your mind, pops up the list of negative things that might happen, but you don’t put it into words, afraid that giving her a lecture might be the last straw to make her snap. You’ve pushed her enough and Miranda has proven herself meeker than usual.

“I’ll be fine.” She murmurs.

Defeated, you stand up from the bed, for a moment, you contemplate the idea of pulling the covers up on her back, but then you decide against it, knowing she won’t appreciate the extra care, despite everything.

“Suit yourself.” You sigh, without venom, and head to the corridor. “If you change your mind, my door is open and the bed is wide enough for us both.”

You wince: are you still doing it for her or yourself? Does it matter?

“I know.” Miranda breathes out. She shifts, making the bedspread rustle, then she turns her head and her eyes flicker brightly in the darkness. You’re not sure she’s smiling, but you are - tentatively, resigned, tired, sorrowful.

“See you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have time, please leave a comment and I'll be eternally grateful.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative training for a budding sidekick (?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

####  **Chapter 4**

The edge of the table presses uncomfortably against your hip bones. You wish for something softer to cover its surface because the marble is becoming uncomfortable as you half-lay on your stomach and elbows on the table, fingers tapping frenziedly over the keyboard of Miranda’s laptop.

“Keep concentrated.” Her voice is luscious coming from behind you. You’re vaguely aware of her breath licking your ear, but you’re very much aware, instead, of her fingers stroking insistently at your bare core.

You wince when she nudges ever-so-lightly at your slit, her intention to tease you painfully blatant as your body shudders in need of simply _anything_ more than that.

You clench your jaw and continue to tap, struggling to conserve the little bit of dignity it’s left not to actually push back to meet her hand and provide yourself the friction you crave: you’re already exposed enough like it is without making your desire obvious - shirt inched up right below your breasts, pants, and knickers pushed down and wrapping at your ankles like a makeshift rope that keeps you steady and trapped.

Of course, your efforts to conceal your needs are useless. You know too well that she’s aware; Miranda wouldn’t be teasing so much if she wouldn’t know.

“Is this really- _really_ necessary?” You try to reason, choosing to take the long way to beg her to stop, imagining she won’t be exactly pleased with you actually implore her to let you concentrate on the task she’s assigned without further distractions - especially this kind of distraction.

Miranda, however, lets out a breathy chuckle and the answer she gives you leaves a very poor margin to hope for some mercy.

“I need you to test your abilities with a drunken mind.” She explains. “Your reactiveness with a body that doesn’t exactly follow your orders.”

You whimper when her fingers glide over your folds and you feel your cheeks growing hot because you know you’re drenched by now.

You tap away on the keyboard, trying to remember all the codes you’ve learned, but your hand slips when she pinches you - and you know she’s done it on purpose right now - and the screen turns black before your eyes.

> _Access denied._

You groan in frustration, Miranda leans closer to you and you feel her legs press behind you, her body framing yours when she leans in, her hand fisting your hair with a gentle grip. She tilts your face to the side, you feel her hot breath fanning your neck and ear.

“Stay focused.” She purrs in your ear.

You scoff: like she’s making it easy.

Drawing a long, quivering breath to expand your lungs, you restart all over again, and, soon enough, you begin to tap on the keyboard again, string after string of codes being written on the screen. You think you’re almost done when she nudges your legs apart with her foot. You swallow, your tapping slows down but doesn’t stop and you spread your legs as far as you can, wincing when more weight lands on your stomach and elbows.

You remind yourself to stay focused, that you’re almost there, but once again, when you’re close to solving the enigma, Miranda pushes effortlessly, curving her finger immediately to probe at a particularly sensitive spot.

Your eyes flutter close on their own accord and, before writing some flawed code, you lift both of your hands from the keyboard, balling them.

“I thought you’d appreciate this method.” Her nails scrape deliciously at your scalp. “But if you prefer, we can use actual drugs to simulate a frenzied mind and an uncooperative body, instead of this.”

You know you should answer _yes_. The very purpose of all those games is to put you in strange situations and see how you react - drugs would be used, sex it’s unlikely; not impossible of course, but unlikely.

You know you should answer _yes_ and prove you’re committed to whatever she’s trying to teach you, but her hand feels too good and you know you’d mourn her absence. If you say _yes_ to the drugs, she’d probably kiss your shoulder and praise you for your bravery, give you a shot and then go sit on her armchair and enjoy watching your struggle.

You know you should say _yes_ , but you crave her.

“No.”

You hate how your voice sound, strangled and thin, and you force your eyes open, cursing the vicious trembling of your hands when Miranda kiss the shell of your ear and, simultaneously, adds a second finger that is supposed to be a reward but that, in reality, is just torture. A delicious one, but still torture.

“Good girl, just as I thought.”

She strokes at your insides without a rhythm, your mind clouded and your nether muscles clenching and twitching without even the faint possibility to chase an actual release. Miranda keeps teasing when she rests her chin above your shoulder and you’re vaguely aware that she’s smirking as she looks at the computer screen.

You know you’ve written something wrong, but you don’t know what. You type away the last string of codes and press enter.

> _Access denied._

You’re not even surprised, this time.

Your eyes flutter close and your head lolls forward when she thrusts further up to her knuckles, her teeth sinking into your neck hard enough to bruise.

“I will try again.” You mutter, begging your knees to not give up just yet. “I can do it.” You state confidently.

Miranda tuts disapprovingly in your ear.

“Dead.” She whispers. “You’ve taken too long and now you’re dead.” She mocks, pecking a small kiss on the apple of your cheek.

You whimper at the loss of her fingers when she pulls out of you. You think she’s done with you for the day, that she’ll send you to your room and lock you inside with another of those boring volumes until you’ve learned all the sequences by heart, instead she fists at the back of your shirt and pulls you on your feet.

You look puzzled for a moment, then she grabs your hips with a bruising force and spins you around, only to haul you effortlessly on the top of the table, the marble harsh a cold under your bare bottom. You’re conscious of the slickness between your thighs and you wonder if she’s made enough mess for you to leave evidence on the table; you wince and squirm when you accept the idea that it’s very likely and your arousal is probably dripping already.

You push your hands and grip the edge of the table for stability, but you don’t have much time more to do anything else before she ducks just enough to make quick work of tugging your pants and underwear away, throwing the crumpled clothes on the floor into a shapeless mass.

Before you can even utter her name, she’s between your parted legs. Hooking one of her hands in the collar of your shirt, she tugs you in and claims your mouth, her tongue dauntless in demanding passage. You match her movements with your own, suckling and nibbling to complete her motions, and you’re wondering which one of you is actually making those soft noises when her free hand comes to cup you mercilessly, two of her fingers, still slick from you, deftly finding their previous placement and settling where they belong. Miranda curls and probes, angling her arm just in the right way so that the heel of her hands hits where you need her most. She sets a punishing pace, and you can only follow her with the rocking of your hips, scooting closer to the edge of the table with each sway, if only to stay closer.

You’re vaguely aware of your knees squeezing her waist or the heels of your feet digging into the back of her thighs, too far gone in chasing the much-promised peak to wash away the discomfort of your twitching nerves.

You might be dead, in her imaginary scenario, but if that’s true, then her skilled fingers and her tongue are making you ascent straight to Heaven.

And yet, is she really going to reward you with a climax after you failed to complete the task? Or is she going to build it, lead you so close with hands caressing your body inside and out like a sweet prayer, only to take it away from you at the very last moment? If she’s planning to do that, with all the teasing she’s done, you know it’s going to hurt. You don’t want it to hurt.

“You know I’m going to take it away.” She smirks, her breath fanning your lips, a dangerous shadow flashing through her eyes.

She pushes further, stills for a moment and you feel hot tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Should you beg? Or act tough and own the soreness already spreading everywhere in your body?

“I didn’t break into the system.” You manage to croak out, your voice right in between a wheeze and a pitiful moan. “I don’t deserve it.”

For a moment, her face softens. The tip of her tongue runs on the edge of her teeth, her thin lips bent into a smile - she seems amused.

“But I do.” She counters, then kisses your swollen lips, cocking her head back when you try to return it, your hips rocking on their own volition as you search for her. Magnanimously, Miranda takes the cue and the heel of her hand presses deliciously against you. “And imagine, solving your next riddle while you’re still a panting mess, unable to understand when one wave stops and the other begins, asking for a mercy I won’t bestow.”

So that is her plan: cloud your mind completely with something close - if not plain - overstimulation. The ache you’re feeling right now is nothing compared to what she’s promising.

Miranda scissors her fingers without much warning and with a couple of expert thrusts you’re crushing over the edge with her voice echoing in your mind - a prayer, promise, a curse, a punishment... you’re not entirely sure.

Your forehead meets her shoulder as your wither, clinging to her as she helps you ride the waves of pleasure that teether already toward pain.

Before it’s over, you wait for her to turn you over like a ragdoll, her fingers still buried deep within you, you wait for her to press you down the table again, while you struggle to fulfill the task, fighting pleasure and pain in equal measure, her sween, throaty laughter vibrating from her chest.

Instead, Miranda softens her motions, you feel her lips in your hair, kissing your head soothingly.

You whimper at the emptiness she leaves behind when she steps away. You watch her, frowning questioningly, your eyes never leaving hers as she peers into you, never diverting her gaze. She smirks, she winks.

Like there’s no big deal, she brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks them clean of your arousal, then wipes away the dampness with a cloth.

You blink in utter confusion, the casual gesture triggers something within you but it's also an unsettling contrast with her previous threats.

You open your mouth to ask for some explanation, but almost immediately you close it when she steps back, approaching you.

Suddenly aware of your state, you shut your legs and wince at the slickness you feel between your thighs.

“Oh don’t pout, m’eudail.” She purrs, placing her hands right on your knees, but she doesn’t nudge your legs apart like you thought she would. Instead, she leans in, licks your bottom lip. “I’m not done playing with you.”

You swallow thickly.

Miranda smiles, and reaches behind you. She slams the laptop close and tuckles it under her arm, striding confidently toward the window. She puts it right in front of it, on the floor, and folds her arms expectantly.

“Come here.” She commands.

Obediently, you jump off the table and approach her on unsteady legs.

Something in her eyes glimmers, making the blood drain from your body.

She grins. “On your knees and elbows. Bottom up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at 3 am, if it's too much blame it on my sleepy brain. Anyways, pls leave a comment? K Bye.


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a real talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

**Chapter 5**

You blink rapidly at the string of codes you’re trying to memorize from the book. It’s been over four hours now and nothing makes sense anymore.  
For as much as you loathe to admit it, the days where she decides that physical training is needed are much more entertaining than the ones in which she places a volume in your lap and tells you to study and train your brain, instead.

Today has been one of those days and you’re almost bored out of your mind.

So when you hear footsteps approaching, you already know what that means - the digital clock above the shelf only confirms your supposition - and a sense of relief starts to spread through your tired body.

“Enough.” Miranda whispers.

You manage to not expose your eagerness by pretending you’re just obeying her order, and you gladly close the book producing a loud, and utterly satisfying _thump_.

When you look up, she offers you the usual evening drink. You know you can’t refuse it, so to obediently take it from her hand and gulp it down in one go.

Immediately, the liquor burns your throat and your tongue goes numb for a second while the dizziness settles in your head.

You close your eyes, barely registering Miranda snatching the empty glass from your hand to put it on the coffee table, and you begin to rub at your temples slowly - you’ve noticed it helps with the throbbing a couple of mysterious mixes ago, and there’s no harm in trying.

Leaning on the couch, you throw your head back and rest it on the cushion, hypnotized by the dozens of dancing colorful dots swirling behind your eyelids.

You still when you feel the book being pushed off from your lap, and its almost inconsistent weight being replaced by a much more significant one.

When you trust your head to have stopped spinning and you deem the nausea almost extinguished - or at least unable to cause any damage - you dare to peer down.  
Two bright, predator blue eyes are peering up from your lap, bare teeth flashing at you with a playful yet dangerous smirk.

You would smile at her for the intimacy of the situation, you would even dare to touch her hair and marvel at the apparent calmness of her, right now, but you know better to do either of those things: Miranda is like a cat.  
She might look like she’s demanding pets and cuddles one minute - simply because she feels like it - only to slash at your flesh with rogue claws and sharp teeth the next - simply for the sake of it - and quite literally too.

Exhaling heavily from your nostrils, you loll your head back and let your eyelids flutter close again, throwing your arm over your face and hiding in the inside of your bent elbow.

“Miranda, what are we doing?” You didn’t mean to sound so whining, but you did. Knowing how she usually reacts to it, you’re painfully aware you’ve probably made her mad already, so you don’t dare to move your arm and see the expression on her face.

“About what?” She inquires, her voice emotionless.

“I don’t know.” You scoff. “About this, perhaps.” Blindly, you reach down your thigh and retrieve your knife. It’s yours by now and fits perfectly in your hand, it’s been a while since you’ve learned to spin it around your fingers, its weight perfectly balanced with each move.

“You’re pretty in it.” Miranda purrs, echoing herself from the first time she ever put it on you. “Why shouldn’t a girl own a knife and know how to use it?” She snatches it from your hand, but you don’t dare to look, so you don’t know what she’s done with it.

“About this, then.” You sigh, nudging at the book on the carpet with your toes, making it slide across the bristle, the soft rustle invading the silence.

“A trained mind is even prettier on a girl.” Miranda replies, pushing the nape of her neck on your crotch when she readjusts to lay more comfortably.

When you feel her exhale, you imagine she’s closed her eyes. Swallowing, you tentatively unpeel the arm from your face and look down - you were right: her eyes are closed. She almost looks peaceful, relaxed. It’s so wild to know it’s the same wild beast who beat you up several times, slashed your shoulder with her initial, and yet…

“Well?” Miranda cracks an eye open, exhales annoyedly from her nose, “Do go on with your little list, I'm having fun.”

You barely resist the urge of rolling your eyes.

“What about this?” You exhale finally, gesturing your own head with a circular motion of your forefinger, tracing an imaginary aureole, and just to be sure she’s understood, your eyes drift and fix on the empty glass on the table.

“You’ll thank me one day.” She says, shrugging, then closes her eyes again, releasing a long breath, and folds her hand over her stomach.

The shirt she’s wearing has slightly risen up and the small scar on the otherwise flawless, flat expanse of her abdomen is plainly visible. Despite it being your first time stitching up somebody, you congratulate yourself for the work and like a river in full, memories flood in your head - the first time you felt her closer, vulnerable, exposed… reachable even; the first time you believed there was more of her under the thick layer of gratuitous sadism.  
It was from that moment she has shown that, in fact, there was. Sometimes she showed more, some others she revealed less - there were days where you thought you’d breached through her only to find her so distant, the next, that she was almost unrecognizable. One step closer, a thousand back. A constant chase and you never felt out of breath, not even once. Disappointed, maybe, but never tired.

In fact, there’s another point on your list, perhaps the most important one, but you cannot bring yourself to voice it: gesturing at the both of you would open a discussion you don’t want to make - one that you’re not yet ready to make - because you fear what the outcome might be. But you would, if only you owned more courage, you would look down at Miranda while she’s still resting her head in your lap without a care in the world, you would point out how easy and relaxing this feels even though you don’t have the faintest idea of what, exactly, this is. Asking directly would probably earn you some rough punishment you’re not in the mood to endure, so you opt for something in general, well knowing the actual implication about the two of you won’t be caught or simply glossed over.

“I’m doing all this for a reason, I’d like to know what it is.”

“To please me?” She’s all cheeks while she says that. The dimple next to the corner of her mouth making her appearance and tugging, unconsciously, at something within you - something warm and foreign that, you know, you shouldn’t feel right now.

It’s the last thing you would like to do, letting her get away with that reply, but you can’t help yourself, nor the throaty giggle that escapes your lips.

“ _Miranda_.” It should be a warning, but it serves little to its purpose. You gulp down and find your seriousness back, hoping that you haven’t ruined the tense mood and jeopardize the only, thin chance you had. “Miranda, tell me.”

There’s a slight shift in her demeanor, but after observing her so closely for so much, you notice it right away: the folded arms on her stomach are not just laying there anymore, the muscles are twitching under her freckled skin.

“It doesn’t matter.” She snarls, and you can see her struggling to hide the bite from her words. “What matters is that you need to be ready.” She states.

“Ready for what?” You ask then, your prolonged sigh exasperated.

“Stop.” She replies calmly, but the vibrating danger lies beneath. “The world I live in is dangerous, and knowledge is a double-edged sword.”

“How is that relevant?” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest, keeping your elbows high enough not to hit her square in the face. “You never even let me out of this place.”

“And I won’t. You are safer here.”

Now you can see her jaw tightening too. The feeble twitching of her cheeks and the subtle movements along her neck tells you she’s struggling even harder to keep her anger at bay - you’re vexing her, you’re getting on her nerves, but you can’t back away, not now, not anymore: she would deem you weak and punish you anyway but knowing you’ve disappointed her would burn more than anything else.

“Then what? What should I be ready for?” Your voice is controlled, soft, letting her know your curiosity is barely fueled by the need to actually know what’s behind all this. To know everything - given she will tell you everything, one day - you’ve got time. A lot too, according to her plan to never let you out of that damn apartment.

“I said _safer_ , not _safe_ , m’eudail.” Miranda exhales a long sigh from her nostrils.

She’s so close to the breaching point you’re even afraid to swallow too loudly by now. You should be glad she worries about your safety, but you know better than to bask in that thought. And the fact that she’s toying so deliberately with you makes your blood boil: she might not know about the things going through your mind, as of late, but she can’t have just lost her ability to read you so easily and so suddenly - she chooses those words like she cares while you know very well she doesn’t.

That’s too much. You don’t mind about crossing the border anymore; whatever punishment she thinks is fit, it doesn’t matter.

“So kind of you to teach me things for imaginary enemies or whatever that will never have the chance to hurt me.”

Her eyes snap open, black pupils thinning in a fraction of seconds into an expanding ocean of bright blue. She’s not looking directly at you, but you feel small and screwed nonetheless - her glare very well burnt into your mind to pop up at every right occasion.

If you weren’t already sitting down, you’re sure your knees would buckle.

“I’m trying to teach you this so _my enemies or whatever_ don’t get too close to you.” She says, her voice surprisingly flat. If you didn’t know any better - or fear the reaction upon inquiring - you’d say she’s just parroting a premeditated response. Something she practiced over and over until she’s started to believe those words were true even if they hadn’t started as such.

Still, you need to work with what you have. You know she’s not always sincere - she hardly ever is - but you have no other choice than to believe her.

Hence, Miranda is not exactly worried about you getting hurt, but getting _caught_ by whatever danger lurks outside that building. Honestly, it’s insulting, after what she forced you to endure from the moment she kidnapped you.

“You think I’d sell you out?” You wince in disgust, turning your head away even if you don’t care to be seen. “You know I would never-”

Miranda lifts up from your lap. She’s quick, doesn’t use her hand to hoist herself: before you can register her movement, she’s gone, sitting neatly beside you, her arms still folded over her chest. The similar position makes you drop yours immediately, your teeth grazing at your lip.

“I know you wouldn’t.” She nods, you can see it with the corner of your eye: she nods softly, her head low, her gaze fixed on her feet. “Not at first, at least, not before one of those heroic, classic speeches that go like ‘I’d rather die than speak’,” she says, mocking a random high-pitched voice, “but then, in the end, with the people I know-” She scoffs, the ghost of a bittersweet smile blooming on her mouth, “Death will be the only thing you’ll wish for.”

You watch her, trying to decide whether she’s completely sincere now or it’s just another of those rehearsed phrases she intends to feed you. There’s a part of you that wants so desperately to believe her, but the other just can’t envisage an actual criminal organization wanting to get to you, torture you only to get information about... you don't fucking know about _what_ , like in the movies. It’s just too wild. Miranda’s universe is fucked up, you’re there by chance and you decided to stay because… whatever the reason, you refuse to be part of that grander design.

It has nothing to do with you.

You agreed to stay with her, not that world of hers that would hardly ever reach you, confined in that New York building, far from any human contact.

“Are you trying to scare me?”

The harsh noise of her hand colliding with the sofa into a resonant slap makes you jerk. Your heart shoots in your throat, pounding loudly in your temples. 

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Miranda is looking directly at you, her eyes flaming in blue tongues of fire and you can’t do anything but stare back, your breath catching and feeling all the blood drain from your veins. “This is not a fucking game!” She glares, points blindly at the window. “It is really _that_ awful out there!”

Unconsciously, you notice you’ve pulled your knees against your chest, curling up into a ball on the couch. Miranda notices as well, you don’t know why she sighs, but she does, the anger slowly but steadily leaving her eyes.

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry.” You mumble, at least grateful she has decided not to leash out on you - not yet.

Maybe those anger management tapes she listens to in her room at night are giving some results. She doesn’t know you know, of course, and imagine she’d be embarrassed, so you keep the secret.

“Like it or not, you chose to enter my world the day you decided to stay.” She says, voice incredibly flat.

“I get it.” You assure, slightly annoyed. How can you ever forget that when she keeps reminding you? Sometimes you feel like she’s trying to _make_ you regret your choice of staying. “But let’s assume your enemies were to catch me,” you’re barely aware of the dramatic eye roll, but the fact that she’s not clawing at your throat yet, encourages you to keep going, “they will probably think I know something and torture me or whatever shit you’re afraid they’ll do to me anyway, so you might as well just tell me what we’re doing. Right?” You’re not exactly sure when you’ve started rambling, but when you realize that perhaps that stream of thoughts hardly makes sense to someone outside your head, you sigh and worry at your lip.

Slowly, you turn your head to the side, wincing innocently when Miranda glares at you with narrowed eyes.

“Nice try.” She replies dryly, then a throaty, disbelieved chuckle erupts from her lips.

It’s kinda nice to know that she still finds you amusing, sometimes, after getting so much on her nerves. A couple of months ago, she would have you killed for much less.

Without much warning, you see her hand flaring up in a calculated move. You think she’ll deliver something harsh - a slap, a grip on your neck, a fistful of hair - instead she loops her fingers in the collar of your shirt and pulls you in for a kiss. Startled and taken aback, you return it without closing your eyes, brow furrowing at the unexpected softness of the contact. Because it’s always about her, you yelp when she bites into your bottom lip, making you taste copper on your tongue, but that doesn’t surprise you.

She wipes at the small drop of blood on her own mouth with the back of her hand and clicks her tongue, crocking her lips into an amused and yet dangerous smirk.

“One of these days I need to teach you to do what you’re told without making annoying questions.” She whispers. There are a lot of implications in that statement and you feel a shiver run up your spine. “Off to bed.”

When she slaps your exposed thigh, the stinging sensation crawling and spreading onto your skin brings you suddenly to yourself again. You’re alert, but you’re back to be puzzled and irritated. You lower your feet to the carpet, yet you don’t make any effort to stand up and leave.

Instead, you take in a shaky breath, her taste still lingers in your mouth, and you unfold and fold your arms on your chest, squirm lightly on the padded seat. You should leave, obey - you don’t want to.

“Well?” She inquires curiosity, cocking an eyebrow.

She’s calm now, she’s just kissed you, slapped you playfully - although a little harshly - on your thigh… you can try again. You can _dare_.

“Come with me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. You didn’t like to sound so needy or clingy, but it’s too late now: your voice has betrayed you.

Miranda blinks and, in her heartbeat, her eyes have changed their light: one glimpse at her face, and you know her mood has shifted again.

“Stop asking.” She exhales, falling into the seatback, shoulders slouching.

“Miranda you just can’t keep doing this.” It’s your turn to slap your hand flat on the couch. You didn’t mean to snap, but it’s too late for that too.

“Careful kitten, I'd suggest withdrawing your claws.”

“I-” Your breath hitches when you watch her scoot closer.

There’s still a gap between the two of you, but she’s there, ready to jump - she is the cat, the feral one, done with the cuddles and yearning for blood. You know she’s going to, so - fuck it - better to just pull it out and get over with it. “It’s just that- you’re close, then you’re distant, you’re kind and nice one moment and a real bitch the next. It’s confusing.”

You try to suffocate the yelp when her hand comes to fist at your hair, but it’s too sudden. Instinctively, you reach up and grab at her wrist to lessen her pull, but you’re helpless and soon you find yourself following her, stumbling on the furniture and on your own feet as she hoists you up effortlessly and drags you into the other side of the apartment.

“I’ll make it simple for you simple, then.” She snarls sharply behind clenched teeth. “Let me remind you that the sole fact that you’re still alive and breathing is a miracle.”

You know better than to ask for mercy: you called this upon yourself, you had it coming, so begging and pleading won’t serve you much. You clench your jaw and hope for the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes to not fall down so soon; however, when the iron door of your old cell comes to sight, it’s impossible to stop their advance.

She’s flushed behind you, her chest pressed on your back. The hand that fists your hair yanks your head backward until her lips are ghosting over your cheek, the other arm wrapped around your waist keeping you still. You can only stare at the vault in front of you.

“You want to go back in there?” She asks, her voice saccharine and warm against your skin.

“No.” You whimper.

“ _No_.” She mocks.

Smacking a kiss on the apple of your cheeks, she’s back at tugging. She pulls you up to the door of the apartment, its white surface a few inches from your nose while she takes her previous position.

“You want to leave and never come back?”

“No.”

“ _No_.” She echoes. This time, she kisses you properly, then bites until you yelp and try to squirm away.

When she pushes you into your room, you almost fall onto your knees, but luckily you manage to stay upright. You turn abruptly on your heels, you stare at her, swallow when she lifts her forefinger, and points it at you.

Her gaze is firm, owning you completely.

“Listen to my advice, m’eudail: take what you can and live with it. I learned it a long ago, it’s time you learn it too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insta: lamarwy_ao3  
> If you have time, please leave a comment and I'll be eternally grateful.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shower gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted on my tumblr: @mementomori-demimonde

**Chapter 6**

You decided to take a shower.

Miranda’s words, as always, swirl in your head - you kept hearing them throughout the whole night - and you just want to get some rest and get rid of the sensation of her hands on you, in your hair, her insistent touch, the bittersweet taste of her kisses on your lips. Sometimes, you feel like there’s something toxic on your skin that itches: a shower seems the best option to get rid of it… to get rid of _her_.

You hate that you let her get under your skin. You hate that she affects you so much even when she shouldn’t. You hate her that despite how badly she’s able to treat you, you still miss her at night, that you know, in a couple of days, you’ll be back at asking to join you to bed.

You hate it all, but you hate the sadness and the hurt that follows the most.

Because you know, somehow, she can shout and bite, and you also know that her threats are basically empty, but you can’t also pretend those words don’t hurt you at all.

Miranda is there, yet she’s far away; always around but so out of reach. Once upon a time, you thought something would come out of there, you thought that one day things would be clearer, but none of that is happening and you’re beginning to feel stuck.

When she’s in a good mood, being with Miranda is great, but when she’s in a foul one, well, it’s a whole different story - and after she’s made clear that nothing will ever come out from whatever is going on between you two - merely a kitten toy for her to play with when she feels like it - you don’t even see a future.  
What’s going to happen in a month, or in a week? Will you still be here, following orders, satisfying her request, without knowing why, nor if you’ll ever do something else in your life, besides existing and entertain your kidnapper in every way she sees fit?

Bowing your head low until your chin touches your chest, you exhale loudly and let the scalding hot water cascade above your head, rinsing the soap and some of your thoughts away.  
You imagine your hope for something more and your dream to walk out of that building with her, spiraling down in the drain and you laugh at yourself, not entirely sure if it’s just water streaming down your cheeks.

Perhaps if you’d paid more attention you would have noticed, beyond the steamed, blurry glass of the shower, the bathroom door opening; perhaps, if you hadn’t tried so hard to cover your pitiful sobs, you’d heard the ruffling noise of buttons opening, of zips pulled, of shoes dropped on the floor with the piles of discarded clothes already there; perhaps if you could’ve just owned up and act normal - and  _ be  _ normal in the first place - you wouldn’t be in this situation at all, simply living and taking what she gives you, no question asked, as Miranda said.

But you’re not: your eyes sting for the soap, your ears are too focused on registering your own whimpers over the water running, and you don’t acknowledge any of those things happening until you feel the cold air on your back as Miranda slides the shower door open.

You tense up immediately, furiously rubbing at your eyes to get rid of the soap and be able to look at her with some composure.  
Surely you don’t want to look weak and broken when you’ll tell her to leave or reply to one of her questions or complain about one of the challenges she’s planning to give you.

You’re expecting some vicious grips on your arm, you expect Miranda to pull you out, suddenly deciding your unnegotiated five minutes of hot water are over, you expect her to be her normal self, harsh and smug and unpredictable, yet none of that happens.

She _is_ unpredictable, but not in her usual feral way. Because, instead of the expected violence, you feel her arms circling your waist, looping around your middle.  
You feel her body press against yours, her breasts flushed onto your back, and her skin is a different kind of warm compared to the water running over you both, now.  
You feel her lips resting almost purposelessly on your marked shoulder, then her cheek nuzzles in between your shoulder blades.

You’re taken off guards but that uncalled and unexpected show of affection, especially after you thought about your next encounter would’ve been a full display of the power she has over you, and so your arms drop slowly at your sides, hands balling up into two loose fists.

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs.

You wish you had the promptness to reach out and turn off the tap to hear her better, but those words are even more surprising than the rest.

“What?” You mumble, not even bothering to conceal your disbelief.

“I said that I’m sorry,” Miranda repeats with a sigh, and you helplessly follow her movement when, behind you, she begins to sway, “I get it: it’s my fault.”

You wish you also had the promptness to turn your head back and look into her eyes as she says so. Instead, you keep staring at the steam-coated tiles in front of you, unconsciously memorizing patterns that don’t really exist.

“Your fault?” You echo dumbly.

Miranda nods against your back.

“You can’t understand something you don’t know.” She whispers, you feel the tip of her nose drawing small circles on your dewed skin.

“You’re going to tell me what’s this all about?”

You almost believe her, for a moment. Then, when you dare to breathe, dare to let the thought of her actually apologizing and gathering the courage to make that longed-for promise of her trying to act better, vanish. The grip on your waist tightens, you can hear her breathing sharper into your wet hair.

“Of course not.” She replies with the familiar saccharine tone, but you can feel that her intentions are not as sweet as anybody else would think. “I’ll just be more patient with you.”

“What?” You blink in dismay, her elbows digging painfully into the hollow space of your waist for a moment before she untangles her arms from your, her hands settling on your hips, her fingers grasping with a bruising force.

On your back, you feel the pricking of her teeth over the smooth ridges of your scars. It stings a bit, but it only serves as a reminder.

“I’ll show you what will happen to you if you don’t listen to me and keep questioning what we’re doing and I’ll try to be  _ very patient _ with you when you’ll start to complain.”

She spins you effortlessly, and now that your face is inches from hers, you can see yourself in the reflection of her eyes. Teeth bare, she’s grinning innocently when she lets you go, trapping you between the shower wall and her own body even without touching either - her presence is enough to discourage you from trying anything. She reaches behind you with both hands, presses her body against your own and you release a shuddering breath at the closeness, well knowing that, from there, only ugly things will happen.

You have very little time to react before she fists your hair, tugging once and with force, making you yelp, blinking rapidly as your face stands now under the direct scalding water, the ceiling blurred and cloudy beyond the showerhead.

You don’t know what she is doing with her other hand, but everything becomes clear when the water turns cold in a second - icy cold - and she keeps you under the stream with unfaltering strength when your stomach begins to spasm and your mouth open on its own volition. You shut your eyes tight, illegible complaints falling from your lips as you pant and splutter water.

You’re barely aware of the jerky movements of your hands and arms as you cling to her shoulders for balance - and to have something firm to hold on to while you feel like choking, dying in the cold, in the most horrible of ways.

Her other hand settles on the small of your back, keeping you flushed against her, keeping you upright and still.

“Relax.” Her voice is calm but easily reaches your ears above the cascade of water over your face. “It’s just the shock reaction, don’t fight it.”

You’re left there gasping for air like a goldfish, but her voice is anchoring and you focus on that, on the steady rise and fall of her chest against your own, spasming one, on the gentle rubs of her fingers on your loins. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, shivering due to the cold stream but able to bear it on your skin. You tilt your head to the side, wincing when you feel her tug tighten, and try to breathe through your nose, water and spit trailing down your chin as you empty your mouth.

“That’s it, clear your mind.” Miranda praises, her hot breath on your neck making you shiver even more. “You need to get used to cold temperatures. One can never know.”

The muscles in your neck protesting for the angle, you try to wiggle your head free, wincing at her fingers still entangled between your wet hair. The water still runs over your face and you’re still trying not to drown in it, your lungs burning painfully, begging for oxygen. You feel your stomach spasm one last time before she releases her fist and you stumble about, sure you would have fallen to your knees if Miranda hadn’t been there, squeezing you tight.

And what did she try to prove? Teaching how to control your body reaction in case you fall into a frozen lake? Or is it some torture she’s experimented on herself, inflicted by one of those enemies she fears? The next thing she’ll do, you can imagine, will be training your ability to hold your breath underwater, preferably at freezing temperatures - or boiling ones. Yes, but for what?

You cough up water from the back of your throat, but you cannot expand your chest fully, like you so desperately desire, because Miranda’s arms are crawling on your back, rubbing messy circles as she shushes you, suddenly all protective and indulgent.

“You dropped your guard.” She murmurs. Her head is tilted, her face is buried into your neck and wet hair and you desperately trying to breathe, eyes burning and tears streaming freely down your face, mixing with the water.

“What?” You manage to croak out, your throat stinging for all the useless spasming of your muscles in search of air. What does she mean? On what particular occasion? Right now? Three days ago when you let her jump on your back and pin you to the floor on your way to the kitchen? Two months ago when she kidnapped you in a dark alley?

“You knew I was coming for you, and yet you let me get close.” She says, her voice low and firm, but it doesn’t have any bite in it. She almost sounds… apologetic, but you know she’s not.

She’s talking about _right now_. When you were showering and thinking about her, and you noticed something was off and perceived Miranda’s presence and feared the outcome and yet did little or nothing to stop her.

“It was you, Miranda-” You blink, clearing your throat, and you sigh in relief when you notice you can breathe normally, without aching too much. “I guess I still want to talk about it." You sigh sharply. "I’m not scared. Whatever it is, I know you would never-”

“But I did hurt you in the past,” Miranda interjects, her ability to anticipate your thoughts leaving you once again speechless. Yes, you were about to say you're not fearing her because she would never really hurt you; you were about to blatantly lie. She knew and she stopped you, “I did hurt you already and I keep hurting you.” She doesn’t sound sorry as she says that, merely stating the truth. You can even hear her say that she’s doing all this for your own good, in your head.

Miranda turns off the water. You shiver against her.

“I'm aware.” Despite yourself, you relax in her hold, you slide your arms around her slender body when she starts to sway again, gently, the heat radiating from her body a welcome distraction from the freezing air hitting your back. “But it’s too late to be scared of you. I’m past that.”

Miranda sighs heavily in your hair. She swallows. You feel her hand crawling up your back, on the nape of your neck, her fingers grabbing your hair into her fist - she doesn’t tug, nor pull, but it’s possessive nonetheless.

“You mustn’t lower your guard, did you hear me?” She mumbles. “ You’ve learned a lot, but this might be my biggest failure.”

“What?” You almost sob, the word coming out squeezed as you rest your chin on top of her shoulder. Why are you so slow in getting the meaning of her words today? Has the cold water frozen your brain?

When she pushes you away, you hardly contain a whimper. You gather your arms close to your body, curling up on yourself as you try to cover as much skin as possible in the extreme attempt to stop shivering.

Miranda’s hands are on your face in an instant. She cups your head firmly, her fingers are cold against your cheeks. Her blue eyes are shimmering, boring into you with intent.

If you didn’t know better, you would say she was on the verge of crying.

“You mustn’t trust anybody.” She states, stressing every word.

You swallow, blinking rapidly but sustaining her gaze.

“You already know I trust you.”

In your head, you’ve just said something Miranda would be proud of. You imagined she would smile, praise you because that was exactly what she wanted to hear, that the world outside was a dangerous, vile place full of villains and threats while she is the only exception, the one who had saved you from a lame life, the only one who gives you a purpose.

Instead, Miranda frowns, her fingers pressing at either side of your head almost painfully. She clenches her jaw, and  _ trembles  _ with the effort.

“You mustn’t trust anybody.” She insists.

“Miranda, but it’s you-”

Her lips collide against yours and, just like the cold water, they steal your breath. Something within you, however, thaws out.

“Nobody.” She murmurs. “ _Especially_ me.”

Miranda leaves the room. Shivering, alone in the shower, you can’t do anything but listen to the water dripping by your feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insta: lamarwy_ao3  
> If you have time, please leave a comment and I'll be eternally grateful.


End file.
